Brooklyn Is Here
by Niqi Rose
Summary: Just Spot-centric blurbs and scenes from a fantasy!Newsies AU idea I've been kicking around and working with. Some are connected but not all. Any and all constructive criticism welcomed and even encouraged!
1. 1897

Now Spot didn't used to hate early mornings. Used to be that early mornings meant starting the coffee for the Superintendent and getting a cup himself for his troubles while he admired the beginnings of the sunrise. Mornings meant time to focus what little control he had over the magic he's inherited from his ma to heat up enough hot water to wash up for the day, being the first to stop by the nuns and their wagon and get himself the best of the questionable biscuits and donuts they hauled around. The earlier Spot got up the more likely it was he'd be first in line at distribution and first out the gates to sell the morning edition. He'd had a whole slew of regulars who bought from him just cause he was the only newsie out and about the streets the same hour they were. Used to be that Spot loved early mornings.

But that was before Blue left.

These days Spot got up first to get breakfast started. His mam had taught him the basics of a kitchen soon as he was old enough to hold a spoon properly and Old Lady McGonagall who'd lived a couple doors down from them had made sure he could bake good as any housewife. Last his birds had told him she wasn't faring too well herself these days, he'd have to pay the old broad a visit. But first he had to get the big pot of porridge going and bake the bread he had left to rise overnight and set the percolator on the stove to get the coffee started. He lets his fingers linger on the edge of the pot as he fills it with water and oats and the last of the milk, his hands hover over the percolator as he starts the flame under it, and he uses a silver knife to carve simple runes in the top of the bread as he shapes it before sticking it in the oven; muttered charms and incantations spilling past his lips all the while.

Just another thing his mam and McGonagall had made sure he knew before he went off into the world on his own.

Most mornings by the time he's got the porridge off the stove, bread cooled and sliced enough every boy gets at least one piece and pouring himself that first blessed cup of coffee all but the youngest of his boys are up and getting themselves ready for another day of carrying the banner. He finishes his coffee and heads back up the stairs to get the littles up and keep the rest of his boys on track. By now he's got enough control to get the water to a nice heat and hold it while all his boys get themselves washed up. The next hour is full of making sure the younger ones get downstairs and eat without making a mess of themselves and his older boys do their share of the cleaning once they've finished up. He drinks another cup throughout, scarfs down a slice of fresh baked bread, and even a bowl of the porridge if he's lucky.

He barely has time to rinse off his hands and splash his face with freezing water before scooping up the last of the bread into his bag and leading his boys down to the distribution gates. The littles scamper off to grab their papes and Spot hangs back to make sure the girl newsies coming in check in with him on their way into the distribution center. He memorizes any new faces and places a soft kiss on the brow of every single girl that passes through the gates, old and new before sending them off to join the line, a piece of bread in hand as they go. Then the littles are back, papers in hand and it takes everything he has to make sure they stay put while whatever older kid they'd decided to sell with that day gets his papers. He switches about selling partners as he sees fit as pairs are reported to him and makes sure everyone is off to their own selling spots and not taking any of each other's business. Before they step foot past the gates every little under the age of ten gets a soft kiss to their brow, the same charms he had given the girls washing over them. Then they're off, every single one of his newsies determined to sell their papers and make their Head proud. Spot lets out a heavy sigh before he sets his cap atop his head and goes to put his money in the cashbox, grab his own stack of papers and heads off to carry the banner alongside his newsies.


	2. Brooklyn Is Here pt 1: The River

Spot Conlon stands as King nearly a year now today. Albert feels like that should mean something to the swarthy looking man smiling down at them from up on his fancy little stage that looks like the deck of a ship. But he supposes the man probably sees the children who would claim the power and right to be here spread out behind the boy King with only a handful of adults between them and figures he has nothing to worry about. Didn't make the fancy dressed sailor any different from any of the stuck up dandies Albert has stood up against at his brothers' sides over the years.

Then Spot took a deep breath and a small wind started to pick up. The man's smile dropped. Spot rolled his shoulders back and the boats on the river were rocked by an unexpected wave. He let out the air in his lungs and tapped the end of his cane on the ground in front of him, resting his hands on the worn golden head. The man cries out as he's forced to his knees. His swarthy skin has gone pale with a blue tint and Albert swears it goes almost translucent in places

"Conlon, what did you do?!"

"Me? Why nothin'. Not a damned thing." Yep, smug as a cat that got a saucer of cream after snapping up the canary.

The man snarls at him and Albert is sure that if his edges weren't getting all wobbly and see-through that he'd have thrown himself down from the top of the short stairs to try squeezing the life out of Spot. Spot who's standing there calm as you please, as the man hauls himself up wobbly kneed from the floor to drop himself into what was once his very fancy throne-like chair. A very fancy throne-like chair that had looked to be covered in gilded seashells and soft silk drapes but now was looking more like a stuffed chair that had seen better days, looked a little rotten and like it was moments from falling apart in not for the rough-woven fishing nets holding it together in kep places if he was being honest.

"You insufferable child, do you know what you have done?!" His fitted vest and clean, soft looking, shirt had lost their sheen and were hanging dull and threadbare off his now gaunt frame.

Spot took another deep breath and let it out slow and even as he could. A cold wind began to come harsh and strong as his breaths evened out, banging windows open and shut and pulling at his clothes and hair. Albert keeps himself from asking Race just why they and the others are untouched by the rough wind. "Brooklyn needs a protector, someone to stand guard between our world and that which exists beyond. Safe from those who would wish her harm and foreign magics. Brooklyn stands strong and powerful amongst her allies, but she still needs protection. That is the job of the River."

"That's right." The man spits out and a thick looking burgundy liquid is spilling down the wavering form of his chin and it takes a moment for Albert to realize that it's blood. "The Bridge may be the connection between worlds but I uphold the borders, I am the one that stands between. I am the damned defender of this-" He's cut off by a wracking wet cough as he tries and seems to fail to drag more air into his shaking form. "Hells, what have you done child?"

"You know full well what has happened. You have lost your hold on that which gives you life. Sad to say brother River, but seems like your days are numbered. 'N fact I'd say you's probably got a couple a hours left, tops." The man growls at him and Spot's shoulders drop a little. His voice comes out softer and a little sad. "Time's up old friend, sorry it had to come to this."

"No you're not."

Spot shrugs again and there's a softness to his voice that makes Albert fidget and stomach roll a little uneasy. "Believe what you will. But you and I both knows hows this has gotta end. Seems ta me you can either hold on and suffer in your self pity a bit longer, or you can let it go." Albert finds himself taking a quick step forward when the thing -not a man, because the being straining at tattered clothes and streaks of burgundy twisting through it is as far from human as Albert can imagine- takes a staggering step forward.

"You would like that wouldn't you?" The thing laughs and Spot gives a rolling shrug as he slowly makes his way up the low steps. "Though I suppose there are worse fates. And it's not like you couldn't have taken it at any point with the state I'm in." All he gets in response is another shrug and he sighs. "Very well lad. Give me your hand then you brat."

"I'm sorry old friend, I really am."

"I know boy." Albert pretends to not see the way Spot's hand shakes as he reaches it out for the dying creature to take.

He can't ignore the way the watery hand that takes Spot's glows red and the boy's body seizes up as he falls to his knees. He can't drown out the shouts of the others Spot had summoned as witness as they all hit some sort of invisible wall keeping them from running up the steps. He can't block out the sight of Race's face going a little red as he yells and throws himself at the force holding them back and the crack in his voice warns of impending tears to go with the terror rising in his eyes.

Then the floor beneath their feet rocks and the not-man's form solidifies a little as he lurches out of his chair and draws himself up before the kneeling lad. His entire form begins to fill with thick burgundy swirls and Spot's head is thrown back with a strangled cry. "I am the River that brings prosperity, I am the provider that guards against the forces within and without-" His other hand lifts up above Spot's head and the swirls of red seem to gather in his fist. "My fealty is unto the City and those that call her home. My love is for her people and those she claims as her own." A slow stream of the thick burgundy drips from the clenched fist onto Spot's head, some of it making its way into his mouth. Race screams obscenities and Smalls sounds near tears as a pale faced Jack holds her back. "So as my heartblood flows through your veins may so my oaths and my vows stand true and unbroken."

Spot's lips move but he can't hear what the other boy says as the -now clear- being draws back. The burgundy is gone, likely all spilled down Spot's head and shoulders and down his throat. But it laughs and falls back into its chair with a sigh that seems to rock the river underneath their feet.

"Rest now, old friend." Spot croaks as he stands on shaky legs. "You served your City and her people well but your work here is done."

It looks up at Spot still painted red and its hollow laugh echoes through the quiet space. For a moment it's as solid and near human looking as the moment they stepped foot in the old warehouse. Then it's slow and immediate all at once. His form wavers one final time before she seems to collapse into a puddle of slightly murky water that refuses to drain down between the planks of the floor to join the rest of the river. Instead it wraps itself about Spot's calves and crawls up to his shoulders, taking the streaks of red with it. Albert shudders as some sloughs off his skin after he's mostly clean but the rest of the water and what red hadn't been washed away seeps into his friend's skin.

Then Spot turns to look out over the gathered City Heads and gang leaders with their lieutenants and subordinates and others who held power throughout the cities. All who had sworn to bear witness staring awed and shaken up at this boy king who was now something more though none were quite ready to speculate just what that meant.

Whatever it was that had been holding them back drops and Race is the first up the steps, grabbing ahold of the other boy and giving him a good shake before yelling about scaring him to death. Smalls is next, throwing herself at the older boy and clinging to him as she tearily promises many painful retributions if he did something that scared her that much ever again. Jack is there in place of Anne with a few of the other City heads and they all hang back before Jojo, one of Spot's Lodge heads, scoffs and shoves her way through the crowd.

She grabs Race and Smalls and hands them off to the rest of those still standing dumbstruck and Albert does his best to hold tight to Race as he tries to squirm back to their friend. The girl bows to Spot, head bent low and hand outstretched like she's handing him something. Spot looks at her with eyes that are a little more blue than he remembers and straightens himself up before taking a deep breath. His shoulders seem to sag a little beneath a new weight but he still stands tall and proud as he turns to address the rest of the hushed room.

"By deals made, by trials won; By blood spilt and sacrifices given freely, the East River flows anew."


	3. Brooklyn Is Here 'verse: Walkin' Mouth

**A.N:** Set during the Strike, about a year after pt. 1, so its a timeskip. Timeline temporarily out of order, will be fixed when I have more of this 'verse up and out.

Spot knew that there was something special about the boy Kelly dragged with him and Boots across the Bridge. Something beyond the Mark that Annie had set upon him and the other boys before sending them over to him. He felt the ripple the boy's tribute made in the waters of the River that echoed across the Bridge and into the Borough. Magic called to its own and so did Brooklyn.

"Well if it ain't Jack be nimble, Jack be quick."

"So you moved up in the world Spot," Jack led his boys through the boxes piled about Spot's Court, angling himself to keep an eye on the other two and one on Spot where he sat above everyone else. "Got a River view and everything."

He doesn't answer the taller boy, just jumps down off his makeshift throne and grins as Jack offers him a spit-shake. As their hands meet he can feel the Borough wrapping itself about the three boys in front of him, accepting its- _his_ visitors. He can feel when it hits his own boys, scattered on the edges of his makeshift Court, making them relax the smallest bit and take a step back.

Turning to the smallest of Jack's entourage he lets a bit of the Borough wrap a little tighter around the boy as he addresses him with a smile. "Hey Boots, how's it rollin'?" He holds back the sigh as his Claim, the piece of Brooklyn in the kid, is recognized and allowed by the hold Manhattan has on him. Is allowed a place about the kid like there was ever a choice.

Boots saunters up with a wide smile as he reaches into his pockets. "Here, I got a couple of real good shooters 'ere." His smile turns into a loose imitation of one of Jack's own cocky grins and amongst the handful of marbles Spot sees the large bright Shooter that has a slight sheen to it that makes it stand out from the rest. Tribute to the King as befitting one of his far-flung boys.

"Yeah" He picks it out and gives the kid a quick smile when he sees the rune etched onto its surface and fits it into his slingshot. "So Jackie-boy," The other kid that Kelly brought hasn't said a word yet, doesn't even make a sound when he ducks dramatically as Spot lines up his shot. Granted, Spot had made his motions big and wide and sloppy enough to give the boy pause, just to see what he would do. "I've been hearin' things from little boids."

Jack's eyes haven't left him since he entered the Court and but now his body shifts to face him full on to match his focus. "Yeah?"

"Things from Harlem, Queens-" He lets the marble fly, shattering a half empty glass bottle left behind by some dock worker, "All over. They're chirping in my ear. Jackie boy's newsies is playing like they're going on strike." He sticks the slingshot into his trouser pocket, slipping his hand in to feel the marble that had already materialized there.

Instead of Kelly pushing back, posturing and smiling and trying to use his charm and their friendship to his advantage and press his point the cowboy's whole body shifts and his face falls into guarded indifference. "Yeah, well, we are." And now that was unexpected.

What was even more unexpected was the other boy Kelly had brought with him moving in between the Lodge Head and the King of Brooklyn to throw in his two-bits. "But we're not playing. We really are going on Strike." And close up Spot finally recognizes the kid. He's gotten taller since the handful of times he saw him hanging about the Duane St. Lodge and his kid brother isn't hiding behind his legs but it's the oldest of the Jacobs brothers. Sarah's twin.

Spot looks him straight in the eye, can feel the swell of his magic showing as his own go a little too-blue and almost glow, in the gentle rocking of the dock and the light breeze that picks up around them as he moves just half a step further into the taller boy's personal space. Something pushes at him before falling away, almost inviting him in. "Oh yeah? Yeah?" He smirks a bit at the hint of fear behind the stubborn resolve in the Jacobs kid's eyes and pulls back just enough to let him take a shaky, steadying, breath. But he doesn't let himself relax, his shoulders stiff and hunched like he's expecting a blow or malicious burst of power and Spot has got to acknowledge that at least the kid seems to have some common sense. "What is this Jackie boy, some kind of walkin' mouth?"

That makes the kid puff up and clench his jaw like he takes issue with the name even as Spot feels it settling about him. It seeps into him like Annie's Mark and Manhattan's Claim and the charms that are so subtle and quiet but still powerful enough that even on his own turf he should have been kept well out of reach of the kid. And damn it all but it's so tempting. He could reach out and take hold of the power threaded about the other boy -anchored to him really- he could draw it to himself and let it fill in the empty spaces he's all too aware of these days as he's spread too thin too often to keep up with the demands of those within his domain. The familiar heady taste of warm bread mixed with sweet spiced honey cut by rich fresh milk settles on the back of his tongue and it takes everything in him not to let himself drown in it.

"Yeah it's a Mouth," And Kelly is pulling the kid back into his own space away from Spot's piquing interest. "But it's a Mouth with a brain, and if you got half of one you'd listen to what he's got to say." Spot pulls away, out to the edge of the reach of the charms that should have been able to keep him back but had invited him in like Jacobs was one of his own and sits down on one of the wooden boxes scattered about the place. There's a spark in the other boy's eyes like he's almost solved a particularly difficult puzzle as he watches Spot. He nods to the taller boys and Jack gives his friend one last pat on his shoulder before moving off to the side, leaving the Mouth standing alone before the King of Brooklyn to present their case with just a few words of encouragement. Interesting to see Kelly putting so much faith in someone other than Annie or Racer, and to lay it out on the table like that too.

Jacobs takes a deep breath and shoots Kelly a pointed scowl before facing Spot again, that wariness back in place. "Well, we started the strike, but we can't do it alone. So, we've been talking to Newsies all around the city." He feels a bit of him twist about unpleasantly at the acknowledgment of a single city.

"Yeah, so they told me." He scoffs but uncrosses his arms and rests his elbows on his knees, leaning towards the other boy. "But what'd they tell you?"

"They-they're waiting to see what Spot Conlon does." Spot can't help the pleased smirk at what he knows is more statement of fact than empty praise. The kid's shoulders loosen up a bit and he starts to talk a little faster. "You see now you're the key. Cause they say that Spot Conlon is the most respected and famous Newsie in all of New York, and probably everywhere else." There's a laugh in the kid's voice as he gains momentum and yeah he's laying it on a bit thick but there's a pleased thrill that runs through the charms hanging about the kid and it sends a pleasant, content, hum through him. "And if Spot Conlon joins the strike then they'll join, and we'll be unstoppable. So ya see, you gotta join because- well you gotta, ya just gotta"

"You're right, Jack, brains. But I've got brains too, and more than just half of one." He's up and moving between them now. Passing a little too close to the Jacobs boy and right past Kelly. "How do I know you punks won't run the first time some goon comes at you with a club? How do I know you got what it takes to win?"

Jack steps right up to him. He can feel the unease in his boys watching at the sight of another leader, a well-known and respected Head who stood as an ambassador for his Borough, moving so close to their King. "Because I'm tellin' you, Spot." And there's the rub. Because if it was anything else that would have been all he needed to lend his aid. Spot holds back a tired sigh.

"That ain't gonna be enough Jackie-boy," Spot can feel the hum of the charms woven about the Jacobs boy wrapping against him even tighter, can feel when the kid reaches for them himself and knows that for all the Borough can feel _something_ in the kid that the answer is in the charms and who laid them. "You've gotta show me."

She won't like it, putting her brother in harm's way like this. But he has an entire City- Borough, he has an entire Borough to take care of and it comes with his own Newsies, with kids and littles who wouldn't understand why they were fighting and foolhardy teenagers who would end up getting themselves hurt, or killed. And that was just his Newsies.

So no, Kelly and his Mouth are gonna have to prove themselves, prove this is something they can do. Sarah would understand, he just hoped she could forgive him.


	4. Brooklyn Is Here pt 2: The Bridge

**A.N:** This chapter/installation is bringing the rating up cause there is death, 'blood', a moment of ritual self-harm (this is a magic world y'all, have you ever heard of the ancient druids and the way they did things?) and some language. Personally I feel like it's tame but I have been reminded I'm kind of desensitized compared to the rest of society. Nothing too explicit but like I said, this is being rated Mature from here on out for violence, death and language.

Also kind of rushed this out at the end so might revise later. Constructive criticism appreciated and encouraged!

* * *

He didn't want to be here. He shouldn't be here. He should be back home helping Miss Annie and Medda with the preparations for Samhain; making sure Irving Hall and the Duane St. Lodge were properly warded, that they had small fruit cakes and warm spiced cider for whatever children kept up the old traditions of going door to door and whatever spirits decided to walk amongst them for the night. He wanted to be back in Manhattan sitting at the Jacobs' kitchen table helping Sarah and her family make charms and shortbread cookies blessed with runes of protection and good fortune to hand out amongst their neighbors in the tenement. He should be anywhere but behind Spot Conlon -King of Brooklyn and something more that made his stomach clench and flip uncomfortably and the breath in his chest freeze- as the younger boy stood before another nameless, ageless, entity in some hoity toity office building.

He didn't want to stand to the boy's right -a few people removed from the actual place of honour, but still- while the man pacing in front of the rich mahogany desk and it's monstrosity of a chair raked twitching, clenching hands through fiery hair brighter than Albert's to match the healthy ruddiness in his cheeks then pulled at an unbuttoned burgundy waistcoat and plucked at red suspenders too similar to the threadbare ones worn by the boy he was spitting obscenities at.

"You **cheated**, the deal is void if you **cheat**!"

"Brooklyn never cheats, and neither does Spot Conlon." Hotshot shouts something about the honour of Brooklyn and the rest of Spot's boys roar their approval alongside her. "If my predecessor taught me anythin' it was never make a bet you weren't sure you'se would win."

"Is your ambition really worth betraying the City, mutt?" Beside him, Jack can hear Racetrack suck in a sharp breath and the other Brooklynites amongst those who had gathered to stand witness grumbled amongst themselves.

Spot simply shakes his head with a sigh. "You know better than most what I'se done ta defend Brooklyn from those who would wish 'er 'arm." The man bristles and the smell of hot asphalt and metal hangs heavy in the air.

"**I** defend Brooklyn! Not some half-fae, bastard, upstart."

"The River defends Brooklyn." And those words seem to rip through the man as he takes a rattling breath and his form wavers like a heat mirage for a moment. The pleasant warmth that had greeted their party and had most of them taking off their heavy overcoats when they walked into the building is growing stifling. "The Bridge is the way between worlds. Ambassador and gatekeeper. Ally o' all, friend ta none." Spot seems unphased by the heat and the very angry man shaped being obviously controlling it. "And if you'se recall, I stand as King and The River. I stand as defender and keeper o' the old laws."

"What do you know of the old laws, brat?"

Spot clicks his tongue in annoyance, rolling his shoulders back, a hand coming to rest on the head of his cane still tucked into his suspenders. "Enoughs ta know tha' as King and River I has the **right** an' tha **power** ta challenge you'se fer your Seat." The ruddy faced man pales a little at that. His pacing stops and he turns on his heel to glare at Spot.

"You wouldn't **dare** challenge me here in my own **home**, my **Seat**." Jack can only liken the way the man moves to an alley cat's prowl as he walks behind his big fancy desk to sit in his big fancy chair like it drives his point home. Like it has any bearing on what Spot has come for. "Even you aren't that **pompous** and **foolish**." Jack wants to run, the 'man' is turning red in the face and he's starting to spit a little with the force of his words. His breath is coming in short, barely contained, bursts and he blinks a few times to get the image of Snyder's sneer out of his head as the 'man' leans back in his chair.

"I'se been called a lot o' things brother Bridge," the being that looks like a man sneers at Spot again. "But almost every persons as tried tellin' me my own limits, well," Spot shrugs and gives out a dry chuckle as his fingers dance over the gleaming head of his cane. "Let's say they'se hasn't always been around long enough fer me to say 'I told you'se so'."

The Bridge snorts out a laugh, "And do you expect me to be another such fool, mutt?"

Spot shrugs and his hand stops fluttering to rest on the shaft of the cane like he's about to draw it out, a bored look on his face. "Ways I sees it Brother Bridge, you'se has only got so long afore you'se just _poof_, up and disappears. And whens dat happens I'll be right there ta send you'se on yer way."

The Bridge is going even redder than before and Jack could swear there's steam coming out of his ears like a boiler turned on too hot and left on too long. He doesn't realize that he's started moving back away from this thing that looks like a man but is something so much _more_ and far older and filled with so much anger until he registers the hand on the center of his back keeping him from going any further. He looks around and sees faces filled with awe and fear and begrudging respect and excitement. Then he looks to his side and there's Racetrack, his Second, his little brother. The younger boy is grinning around an unlit cigar and looking at Spot with a mix of pride and excitement and a wildness in his eyes that Jack knows too well, recognizes as thinly veiled fear.

Jack turns back to look at Spot. Spot who is standing tall and proud with shoulders too broad for his skinny frame and large hands and feet and ears that he knows mean the younger boy is going to grow tall and strong, probably even taller than Jack one day, but right now only remind him that this is a _child_ standing between a handful of mortals and the literal manifestation of a piece of Brooklyn. And he knows. He knows that Spot and even Racer are something _more_ that he can only begin to try and understand. Sarah had tried explaining it to him once one of the times he was allowed to escort her on her errands. Some people were bound to their homes, their territories, it became a part of them. Sometimes it was the other way around. And looking at the King of Brooklyn, pale skin glowing in the warm lamplight that dances over the shiny key and strands of almost golden hair falling in too blue eyes that flash with power and around his face, he thinks he may understand what she meant.

"You think I'll just roll over like The River did then? You think I'll, what? Just hand over even more power for you to **hoard** and-" He's cut off by a dry hacking cough that has him bending forward over his desk and curling into himself accompanied by another ripple through his form. As it washes over him his hair seems to be a little duller and his skin pulled almost too tight.

Spot sighs and takes a step forward. The Bridge snaps up with eyes like shining copper and another snarling sneer on his face. "We'se hasn't always gotten along, Bridge. But you'se knows everythin' I've done 'as always been fer Brooklyn, you knows **what** I've done fer the City and her People. You knows what's I've **given** ta her and ya know I'd do it all again an' **more** if I needed. I swear to ya Brother Bridge, if ya ever trusted me, or at least whats I stand fer then you'll listen ta me now. There's change comin' to tha Boroughs an' the Cities an' it'll shake all o' New York, maybe even tha world. And there ain't no changin' it, ain't no stoppin' it, but we can do somethin' ta protect our own."

"You think I don't know that?" The Bridge coughs out. His burgundy vest is looking more worn and grey and closer to the one hanging loose on Spot's own frame over his pink suspenders. Jack gulped as the man raked another hand through red hair, a dull almost copper colour left behind, and his vest shifts to show faded pink have replaced firetruck red. "You think I don't know what those fucking bastards are trying at? Think I don't know what'll happen if the vote goes through?"

Spot's voice is quiet and sure but Jack swears he can hear the edge of fear and nervousness as the boy takes another step closer. "The vote went through last week."

"What?!" And the anger is back, The Bridge is trying to stand again, using his desk as leverage but falls back onto his chair. "What did you say?"

Spot scoffs, "Ya heard me ya numbskull, the vote went through last week! By this time next year Brooklyn is gonna be a Borough." Jack knew that. It had been all over every newspaper for months. The debates and discussions, politicians and businessmen and neighbourhood leaders all putting in their two-bits on the matter. Most druids and mages had been for it, nearly every sorcerer and witch in 'hattan and Brooklyn had cried out in outrage when the results of the vote had come through. "The City o' New York don't hold ta the old ways, tha old laws like Brooklyn. You will **die** and you will be **forgotten**." Spot practically spits out the last few words and the venom in his voice has Jack trying to back up only to be stopped by a gentle hand again.

"And what?" The Bridge snaps, "You think you'll fare better? No Borough needs a King."

"So long as Brooklyn stands, so will 'er King."

And it's quiet, just the sound of heavy breathing and the rustle of cloth as those gathered fidget in place, unsure of what exactly is going on. It was nothing like this last time. Jack knows he has no idea how this is all supposed to work but he just can't shake this sense of _wrong_ to go with the magic hanging so heavy in the air even he can feel it and the hum of something _other_ wrapped about the room. He knows that Racetrack has abandoned his cigar to mutter quiet curses and pleas for Spot to hurry the hell up and for the Bridge to just not be a self-centered dick for once please and thank you. Hotshot and Jojo are holding tight to some of the younger newsies who came along and look ready to soil themselves alongside the adults gathered about the room.

He wishes Miss Annie or Medda had come with him. Had come instead of him. He wishes someone older and smarter and who actually knew what they were doing and had **magic** had come to stand witness as Brooklyn's King did something Jack was sure was going to be so _so_ stupid.

The Bridge laughs and it sounds like a dog's bark, the whine of old metal and the creak of aged wood settling. "You really believe that don't ya, brat? You really believe that you can do **anything** about this? When we couldn't?" Jack has a good idea who the 'we' are but he would really rather not think about that and how Spot knows them to be honest. Or how they had already visited one of them. "You, a _child_?"

"I'se more'n a child and you'se knows it."

"Ah yes, how could I forget?" His voice is strained even as it drips with sarcasm and condescension. "You stand as King and River, guardian of the City and her people and keeper of her oldest laws. And now you wanna play ambassador too."

Spot growls and the urge to _run_ is back and he can feel Racetrack's hand clench into a fist where it rests against the small of his back. "I don't have time for this." Faster than Jack knew a human could move Spot is standing not even a foot away from the still sitting Bridge who is smiling up at the it's tight at the edges and his eyes are cold and hard. "If you'se is gonna be difficult about it then I ain't got no _choice_." Spot's voice cracks and Jack shifts uneasily at the tremble in the younger boy's shoulders. The Bridge grins wider.

"Can't do it lad? Don't have enough guts to do it again?"

"Just let it be and I won't hafta- don't make me-" And in that moment that Spot sounds so young it makes something in Jack ache The Bridge laughs.

It's a raucous full-bellied sound backed by the screech of rent metal that grates on Jack's ears and makes him wince. It's cut off by a wet gurgle that silences the room. Jack grabs Race and clutches him to his chest before he's even aware the other boy has moved. All around him there's yelling and noise and the boy in his arms is kicking and screaming at him to get away but it's all muffled. The only thing Jack can really hear is the sickening gurgling sound as The Bridge tries to laugh despite the copper liquid spilling from his slit throat. He thinks that he heard somewhere or read in one of those books Miss Annie keeps about her tiny apartment that the first gods in the old lands bled gold and really, copper wasn't too far of a stretch if you took that into account was it?

He swears he can hear the liquid that slides down the blade in Spot's hand to land on the floor.

"I'm sorry." The child King says and Jack doesn't know if anyone else hears him as the boy leans back, his hands shaking at his side. "I didn't want to." Jack doesn't know if anyone else sees the tears welling up in his otherwise blank eyes as he reaches one hand down into the still flowing blood and spreads it on his blade. He doesn't know if anyone notices the hilt is the head of Spot's cane.

The rest of the world comes back into focus as Spot uses his 'bloody' knife to slice a line down his forearm. He grips Racetrack tighter against him as their friend smears the copper blood into the cut and his skin muttering words that make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Hotshot and JoJo are working with grim faced adults to hold back the children who earned their place as witnesses.

He didn't want to be here. He shouldn't be here. He should be back home helping Miss Annie and Medda with the preparations for Samhain; making sure Irving Hall and the Duane St. Lodge were properly warded, that they had small fruit cakes and warm spiced cider for whatever children kept up the old traditions of going door to door and whatever spirits decided to walk amongst them for the night. He wanted to be back in Manhattan sitting at the Jacobs' kitchen table helping Sarah and her family make charms and shortbread cookies blessed with runes of protection and good fortune to hand out amongst their neighbors in the tenement. He should be anywhere but in some fancy office building in Brooklyn watching Spot Conlon, the youngest King his or any City had seen, the boy who was something _more_ that made his stomach clench and flip uncomfortably and the breath in his chest freeze.

He wishes Miss Annie or Medda had come with him. Had come instead of him. He wishes someone older and smarter and who actually knew what they were doing and had their own damned magic had come to stand witness as Brooklyn's King shook the very foundations of the whole damned state.

Racetrack is crying now, wrapped up in his arms and Spot is standing over the still form in the big fancy chair behind the big fancy desk that used to be an ancient, powerful, being. He wonders what it means that a teenage wisp of a boy was able to bring him low. He wonders what it means that the thought doesn't scare him as much as it really should.

When Spot turns to look at everyone gathered to stand witness his eyes don't seem to be able to focus on anything in particular and his knuckles are white as he grips his blade tight. "By sacrifice made and blood spilt;" Jack shudders at the thrice layered voice coming from his friend and the wave of power that came with it. He tries not to marvel at the way the light shines and bounces off of the copper covering his hands. "By oaths upheld and the old laws of the land, the Bridge between worlds is reforged."


	5. Brooklyn Is Here 'verse: Esther Jacobs

**A.N: During the strike, one of the first big rallies. Set after other published pieces so far**

**Roisin, meaning 'little rose' is pronounced ro-sheen and roughly translates to Rosaleen, Rosalin. Roise, a diminutive of Roisin, carries approximately the same meaning, is pronounced ro-sha and roughly translates to Rosie.**

**Not completely happy with this one and it's not even technically done so will probably come back and fix/finish it up later but it's been awhile since I've uploaded on this project and this part is getting long so just gonna post what I've got for now**

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Esther Jacobs was nearly at her wit's end.

Lord knows she was proud of all her bairns and especially her lads, who had really come into their own of late. David had been listless without a set Path and now he was known in the tenement and nigh on the whole neighbourhood as the dashing Jack Kelly's intelligent and fearless Second. A strike leader and capable newsboy in his own right, alongside all the others. Les was steadier than before, centering himself without his sister at his side to tether him to the earth and keep his feet firmly on the ground was coming easier and easier. He was a tad quieter, being more thoughtful and wanting to be grown up, taking on chores and responsibilities that he had bemoaned and scoffed at before. Though the chores may have been because he had come home from one of their late-night strike meetings that had become a full-out sleepover chattering about how one of the Brooklyn littles had told him that 'Spot Conlon hisself ma!' made loaves of bread and hot oatmeal and fresh coffee for the lads of his lodge every morning and hauled a few loaves of the bread over to the distribution yard for the girls when they came from their own lodgings to get their papers. And she wasn't quite sure how true it was that someone like Spot Conlon (Newsie or not, Spot Conlon was a name well-known in a fair few circles Esther had ears in) took the time to do something so menial and time consuming but she wouldn't argue with whatever got her an extra pair of hands to help around the house.

But saints help her if she didn't find a quiet corner away from the blasted noise and chaos soon. She only needed a few minutes. Some time to rest her swelling ankles and her sore back and catch her breath and-

She bit back a curse as a horde of little ones rushed past her like the devil himself were on their heels and she swore she heard Les' voice amongst the shrieks. Looking about she couldn't spot her Davey, the lad likely off helping Miss Larkin who was playing hostess tonight (thank the lords, her family's tiny apartment was fine for Manhattan's Lodge Heads and Neighbourhood representatives but not a meeting of all the Boroughs and their allies) socializing with the business owners, local politicians and concerned parents who were helping to feed and finance the kids running the strike. And if he wasn't doing that then he was probably at Miss Kelly's side, introducing said business owners, local politicians and concerned parents to the lads running the whole operation. Her poor Sarah was surrounded by a small crowd -that had been slowly growing since she stepped through the door- of boys who seemed to hang on her every word. And saints help her if she knew where little Rosie was. Thank the saints for dear Jack who would periodically go over and keep her oldest girl company, shooing away some of the more forward of Sarah's admirers when he wasn't playing with the younger boys or being dragged into some conversation over a card game by the older lads grouped about the place.

And the babies (lords help her another set of twins) would not settle unless one of them was pressed right up against her poor abused bladder. She let out a sigh, one hand rubbing absently at her protruding stomach, trying to look over the heads of the people gathered about the hall for maybe a chair or bench or something where she can finally just sit herself down for a moment. There are so many bodies all crowded so close together that she's surprised she notices the light touch to her elbow that seems to draw her into a small pocket of quiet away from the throng.

"Now wha-" she's ushered into a soft chair that feels as warm and soft and comfortable as the armchair back home and a cup of something hot and aromatic is pressed into her hands. She looks up from the hands still loosely wrapped about her own and the steaming mug up a worryingly thin arm to a familiar too-thin, soot smudged face.

"Don't worry yerself there none Mrs. Jacobs," The lad chuckles, "Is jus' a tea meant ta help settle yer nerves witout causin' harm to yer bairns none." She couldn't help the soft smile at the almost singsong lilt to the boy's Brooklyn brogue, the Irish in him coming out stronger than normal.

"Thank ye lad," She took the cup with a smile and from the first sip felt a sense of calm wash over her and a chill slips down her spine even as she's filled with warmth. The magic resting on the back of her tongue so familiar and yet still so foreign. "So Roíse, you a healer fer one o' tha lodges then, love?" She takes another sip and keeps her face soft and pleasant and open as the lad tenses and his smile draws tight.

"Uh no, not really ma'am. I do some healin' but we've got Stitches fer the big stuffs."

She hums with a nod and sips at her tea, deciding not to push. It had taken her too long to earn the trust of her daughter's friend and she's not going to risk her hard work now. "Well don't you go wastin' yer evenin' keepin me company, lad. Go have some fun. And if you happen across that Spot fellow send 'im my way will you? I've met most o' the other Borough Heads 'cept him." She shakes her head with a disapproving snort. "If'n I din't know better I would almost say the lad t'was avoidin us parents." And she smiles at the lad again as she shrugs. He's gone a little pale but she did just accuse one of the most powerful people in New York of being scared of something, even if it was in jest.

"Ah, yeah, 'course Mrs. Jacobs. Uh, enjoy yer tea." Esther Jacobs absolutely does not laugh or even chuckle at the lad as he nearly stumbles over himself getting up from the chair.

She had always considered Roíse a nice enough lad, sweet even, but obviously not one for socializing if the way the others seemed to give him a fairly wide berth meant anything. She shrugs to herself like that will dislodge her worry and the persistent sense of _knowing_ the boy her daughter had dragged home like a lost puppy she found in the street nearly a year ago now. Like it will make the way he watched the lads about him, how he held himself steady and firm amidst all of the chaos, a small island of calm, any less familiar. Then she sees her little Rosie -David in tow- weaving her way through the rowdy boys filling the place before stopping at his side, a cloth in hand and a bright smile on her face as she holds it up to the lad.

He gives her a smile and smirks up at David (when did the lads meet that they were so friendly?), taking his cap off before wiping the cloth over his face, getting rid of the soot and dirt. And she nearly chokes on her drink when he smiles softly down at her daughter, cheeks and the tip of his nose a little pink from the violent scrubbing with the cloth and choppy dark blonde, nearly brown in this light, bangs falling into his eyes a bit. Eyes that even from almost half the room away she can tell have shifted to a shade of blue she'd once thought she would never see again until the day she held little Rosie in her arms. Eyes that are looking right at her wide and shocked and he's grabbing David and rushing towards her now.

"Mum, mum!" She's vaguely aware of Sarah kneeling in front of her holding the now empty mug, the tea warming her lap where she spilled it. Jack and Miss Larkin are at her shoulder keeping the boys away saying something about her not being able to calm down with them crowding her. "Mum, wha' is it? What happened? Is it the bairns?" She looks down at Sarah's soft brown eyes, wide with worry and opens her mouth but no sound comes out. Her throat is tight and she can feel the tears cooling on her cheeks as she finally lets out one hiccuping sob.

"Sarah!" and David is kneeling in front of her too now, nearly level with her where she sits like the giant lad he is. "What's wrong mum? Are you alright?"

Roíse, eyes wide in shock and hair she knows is just going to get darker like gold and burnt honey, is holding little Rosie's hand and has Les by the collar of his shirt, like he grabbed the lad before he could hurl himself at her. "I- I-," Oh gods how did she not see it before?

"Sarah, you said it may be the bairns?" He hands her children off to Annie and Miss Larkin and gently ushers her eldest to the side before taking their place. "Mrs. Jacobs, can ya tell me if anythin' hurts? Maybe about yer hips or lower back? Would feel like when the bairns are comin' but sharper, a little too small ta be that."

"Spot-" Her oldest boy's voice sounds like he wants to say more, like he's giving the lad in front of her a warning. Wait, Spot?

"Calm yerself, Mouth. My mum t'was a healer, and a damned good 'un, I know what I'm about till we can gets her to a midwife." Then he's looking back at her with those eyes and presses two fingers to her forehead, muttering something that sends a familiar yet totally foreign feeling tingling down her spine. His magic- gods, his magic that had always felt so familiar even carries an echo of her. "She don't seem to be hurtin' none, somethin jus'-" He sighs and turns back to David and Sarah with a frown that could almost be a pout and moves as if to stand. No, the boy in front of her, who careened into her life and the life of her family, is going to slip away. Out of her life all over again. She can't lose him, she owed it to Rosie. She can't fail them both again.

"Patrick?" Her voice is a raspy whisper that's more of a sob than anything but it makes half the room freeze and the boy whips his head around to look up at her.

"What did you jus' say?" He almost growls and David makes some noise of protest while Jack bites out a warning but the most she can do is slowly reach out a trembling hand to brush his bangs out of his eyes and lightly cup his too-thin cheek.

"You look jus' like yer mum. Like my Róisín. You make her tea jus' like she used ta, afore- afore-"

His eyes go impossibly wider and there's something in them she can't quite decipher. She chokes down another sob as he settles back where he was just a moment ago, most of the lads about her are watching in shocked silence but David finally seems to recover, "Mum, This is Spot Conlon. He's-"

He's cut off when Patrick -Spot, they had called him- grabs her hand and faster than the eye could catch, slices a line across first her palm then his own. She feels more than hears the words he says, almost sings them as he holds her eyes with his own. She feels them sear through her skin and rattle her bones as bond calls to oath calls to blood and the magic in her rises to meet it. There's light and sound and the children are shouting something but he's still just looking at her as it all fades back into focus.

"What the hells was that?!" Jack snarls as he grabs the smaller lad by the collar and hauls him up. David and Sarah are fussing over her again, Les and Rosie clinging to her side as the newsboys seem to split back into their factions, all watching each other like one side is going to strike. "What did you just do, Conlon?"

Jack raises a fist as Patrick continues to just stare at her with those big blue eyes that are so so familiar and that makes her snap back into the moment. She's on her feet using Les as a support to pull herself up. "Jack Kelly you put that lad down this instant." The entire room is silent as Jack freezes. "You put him down this instant or there will be tha hells ta pay, lad."

Esther Jacobs was nearly at her wit's end.

David was spluttering something about impossibilities while his friends tried to hush him and Sarah was whispering to her younger siblings to calm down that their mum was alright. Les and Rosie seemed to be handling it the best, Les going on about it being just like some book he had read at school while Rosie kept saying she wanted to go meet her new cousin. Thank the heavens for Miss Larkin who swept in, putting a hand on Jack's shoulder, whispering something in his ear that had him setting Spot down and taking a step back.

"So we'se kin, but we ain't blood."

She shakes her head and takes a shaky breath. "Róisín Conlon stands as my sworn-sister, meanin' she and any children o' hers have the protection o' meself and me family, me clan. And makin' them good as my own should anythin' happen to her. But I found out too late when she- when she got sick, by then her lad had found a way to get her back home ta me and disappeared and there's no finding a Fae-touched child as don't want to be found in his home territory."

Spot still hasn't looked away from her, something like understanding sparking in his eyes and flashing across his face. "Eistir Parlin, ya married tha Polish fella, tha Jewish factory worker. Yer pa disowned ya fer it."

"Aye, aye that he did." She's laughing and crying and now most of the rest of the guests and children have made their way to the edges of the great big room or just out of the Hall in general. Leaving just her and the newsboys watching her with a wary sort of shock.

She's aware of Jack or her Davey, probably both, somewhere in the background. "Patrick? What's she talkin' about Spot? Who's Róisín?"

"Oh gods, lad. Oh gods I am so sorry." She's sitting again and Patrick is at her knee, one trembling hand wrapped around her own and the other hovering between them like he doesn't know what to do with it.

"You ain't got nothin' to be apologizin' for Mrs. Jacobs, nothin at all. You gotta take deep breaths Mrs. Jacobs, come on breath wit me now-"

"Yer mum has never stopped looking fer ya."

He sighs, his eyes slipping shut and leans the tiniest bit into her palm, "I know. It's safer fer her if we don't meet, you 'ave to understand that Mrs. Jacobs."

"Oh I know love, I know. You're somethin' _else_ now aren't you lad? Is that- is that why-?"

Roíse, Spot, **Patrick**, shakes his head and let's her hand take the weight of it with a sigh. "Me mum gettin' sick had nothin' ta do wit what I am as far as I can tell. 'Cept maybe pushin me to it sooner than tha fates intended."

"I'm too late ta be of any help to ya aren't I lad?" Her laugh is flat and wet and gods, she's going to start crying again. "Pa- Spot, I-"

"No," he grits out and his grip on her hands tightens just the smallest amount. "No, you calls me Patrick, Mrs. Jacobs. You calls me Patrick and know that you are doing more good fer me and me lads than you could know. You gave us tha Mouth and you gaves us Broadway an li'l Wall Street and-" he cuts himself off with a small hitch to his breath and the flick of his attention to his side that the others seem to miss. But she knows Patrick if only because he seems to be the exact copy of his mum and she had known her like she knew her own mind, never did she think she would find another soul so loving and kind until her Sarah had dragged this lad into their lives. So she sees when Patrick's eyes flit over to her Sarah who's standing under the protective arm of one Jack Kelly. "And you gaves us Sarah who keeps all o' the rest, even Cowboy, in line. And you're there whens I can't be, Mrs. Jacobs. You're **there** and she's **safe** so long as you're **there**. And I- I can't thank you'se enough fer that."

"Yer mother would be so proud of you if she knew, lad." And now those great big eyes are shining and he's pulling away with a forced cough, pulling his cap low over his eyes. "I should never have let her go ta Brooklyn on her own. A fae-touched girl like her? With her gifts? I should 'ave-" She steadies herself the best she can with a shaky breath and time seems to freeze for a moment when the boy looks up at her, bright grey-blue eyes meeting hers and he flashes her a familiar sad, understanding grin. Some hair that has come loose from his cap falls in front of his eyes, golden blonde strands just brushing his nose before delicately boned hands are pushing it back again, tucking it just behind his ear in a way that is so familiar she thinks she's going to be sick. She keeps her answering smile soft and prays he doesn't notice how much she must be trembling.

"Magic will always call to it's own, will claim what as belongs to it. And so does Brooklyn. There ain't nothin' no one can do as to change it."


	6. Inevitable

**A.N:**** Own work separate from the other published parts so far. More of a 92sies 'verse than the mix of 92sies and broadsies I've been doing.**

**Pidge is a term of endearment of the time period usually used between close friends or sweethearts.**

**If you think this feels unfinished then you would be right my dears! This was written at 3 in the morn in maybe half an hour cause I had the idea and had to get it out of my head. Tell me what you think? Working without a Beta so be gentle please. Lol.**

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He figured there wasn't much he could do when she started talking about the boy who sold near the shop she worked at. He figured there wasn't anything he could really say that wouldn't give him away when she asked if he knew the boy with the cowboy hat and red bandana. But he figured he could stretch the truth a little, she knew he wasn't 'hattan, she knew he wasn't supposed to be seen on this side of the Bridge. He figured he could get away with a little white lie.

"His name's Kelly, Jack Kelly. Us newsies calls him Cowboy."

"Do your nicknames really follow you to every borough?"

"Some of us they'se the only names we'se gots. Most of us don't keep the names our parents gives us."

"Is Patrick your real name then, or just one you've given yourself?"

"Is real enough I suppose."

"I don't think I like that answer."

"That's life, pidge."

He knows his days are numbered when she shows up to their usual spot with bright eyes and a smile he's never seen before lighting up her face. He knows this is probably the last time he'll be able to see her like this once Jackie and his boys make good on their promise of a strike. He knows it's probably time he told her the truth.

"And he's taller than I expected. I thought he wasn't much older than you, Patrick."

"I'se always been kinda short fer me age. And most of us don't keep much track o' age past when we'se can't swing it in a lodge no more."

"How old are you then?"

"Maybe sixteen? I was real little when I wound up at the lodge. Lots o' times it all jus' blurs together."

"Are there no records of you coming to the lodge?"

"I suppose, under me old name pro'lly The one Blue gave me afore he aged out fer good."

"And when he aged out, Spot Conlon took over?"

"You'se don't gots to say 'is full name. None of us do."

"I've only heard the boys around here say his full name, and even then they're real quiet like it'll make him appear."

"Well you knows what they says about speakin' o' devil's."

"Oh you're terrible."

"So'se I'se heard."

There's no getting out of it now as he makes his way through Lower Manhattan. There's a roiling in his gut as he walks head held high and cane gripped tight in his fist as some of his boys tail him. There's newsies from every Borough and working kids alike openly watching him and plenty of adults being a little more subtle about it. There's plenty of the older Manhattan newsies watching from the shadows as he makes his way through the midday crowd like he belongs here. There's not a sign of Cowboy or The Mouth as he settles down next to an already sitting Sarah. She hands him half a light buttery pastry and he bites back the comment that their usual spot on the fire escape in the alley behind them had better shade.

"So, from what Jack says, Spot Conlon has done a world of good for the working kids of Brooklyn. And newsies through the boroughs."

"I suppose so."

"I wouldn't mind formally meeting him. Davey said he reminded him of an avenging angel."

"Your brudda said what?"

"Oh he made some long-winded comparisons between the boy who earned the loyalty of an entire Borough -and then some- and came to the rescue of the Manhattan newsies and the angels in the Bible. Beautiful to look at and fierce to behold. Warriors of God meant to protect Heaven and Man."

"Your brudda thinks Conlon is an angel o' da Lord?"

"With everything people say about him, is it so hard to believe?"

"You Jacobs are crazy."

"Why thank you."

"Sarah, I-"

"I get why you did it. Once Jack and Davey found out about Patrick it was rough. Davey had concerns for my virtue. I'm sure you can guess how Jack felt about his girl spending time with another fella."

"Jacky boy never was good at sharing."

"Then the picture came out. Jack was larger than life before but now, now he was practically walking legend. And Davey was right up there with him. Davey, Les, Racetrack, Blink and Boots and- and all those boys, they were all part of somethin bigger now. But you, you were somethin else Spot."

"Patrick."

"What?"

"Me name, me real one, not a nickname or somethin I chose to make a new life, it's Patrick."

"Huh, I think I like that."

"Figures you would, pidge."

"This changes everything doesn't it?"

"A bit. I'se Spot Conlon and you'se Jack Kelly's girl. We've got a Strike ta run and I think there's more than just a factory or tha docks waitin for us when we'se age out now."

"You boys are changing the world."

"We're gonna try at least."

Francis Sullivan. Spot knew most of the newsies had fake surnames or used nicknames instead of their Christian ones but he could see why Cowboy had changed everything about his. He had been the one to break the news to Sarah when she met them outside of the courthouse sans her beau. He was glad to see she had managed to make it out safe, glad that both 'hattan and Brooklyn had listened when he ordered to get her to safety above all else.

She doesn't cry when he tells her about Francis Sullivan and his sentence to the Refuge. She doesn't cry when he tells her the cause that Cowboy had gotten himself what might as well be a life sentence to kids like them for was practically ground to a halt since Denton couldn't -wouldn't- publish another article about their strike. She doesn't cry when he tells her that the one person he had thought he could stand losing a girl like her to had shown up in a fancy new suit and a whole stack of crisp newspapers, denouncing the very war he started. She doesn't cry when she reaches out to pull him in close and rest her head on his shoulder while they both catch their breath but he takes a small step back, more a shifting of his weight to his back foot really, enough to keep the space between them. She doesn't cry when he takes his hat off and calls her Miss Jacobs, wishing her a good day with a bow like those fancy gents give the fancy ladies they will never be like.

He doesn't say anything when he hears word that Jack 'Cowboy' Kelly is back with a plan. He doesn't say anything when he hears that Mouth is sporting a shiner from one of the Delanceys, that he got it defending his sister's honour. He doesn't say anything when he and his boys make sure Denton makes it to Roosevelt without any of Pulitzer's goons getting to him. He doesn't say a word when he sees Jack Kelly standing tall and proud and bigger than life in front of hundreds and hundreds of young kids who had never had a voice before now, a Jacobs on each side. He holds Les close between him and Racetrack so he doesn't get swept away in the crowd.

He doesn't look for her when Jack Kelly rides away in Teddy Roosevelt's fancy carriage. He bites his tongue when the damned fool comes back, sweeping up his girl and kissing her for all the world to see. He shrugs Racetrack off when the other boy asks him if he's okay. He pretends not to see the way the other 'hattan teenagers watch him, daring him to give them a reason. He turns away when he sees her searching for him in the crowd. They had won the day, now he had a borough to run.


	7. Brooklyn Is Here verse: Meyer Jacobs pt1

Alternatively titled _Family Legacies_ or _A Touch, Of Destiny_

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**A.N: This is gonna be a long one cause we got some world-building goin' on here y'all! Let me know what you think in the comments**

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Meyer remembers the stories his babcia used to tell him about the 'Old Country'. A place full of life and magic and wonder, even if there wasn't much in the way of steady, good paying work. He remembers when she would place him on her lap, wrapping him in arms too old to carry him but still with enough strength to hold his small frame tight to her wiry one, but only when she had on her soft kid-skin gloves. One of the only luxuries that had survived the journey from the land she grew up in when she set off in search of a better life.

He remembers the haunting lullabies in a language he didn't understand or even recognize from around the tenement on the nights she was the only one home to watch him. He remembers his mother crying in his father's arms after another sibling is lost before they even begin to swell his mother's stomach and his babcia muttering about curses and gifts left behind, abandoned across the seas. The smell of herbs that filled the apartment and clung to his mother's clothes more and more after each sibling lost before he had a chance to know them. He remembers his babcia talking to his parents late into the night when he was meant to be asleep, apologizing for something he didn't understand and begging them to stop fighting the plans of the fates.

He remembers the way the sun shone too bright and the birds sang too loud as they lowered the coffin into the ground. He and his father wore black arm bands and shined their shoes with black polish because they couldn't afford new black shirts. The other families from the tenement whispered condolences for his mother and the sibling they were burying with her. His grandmother wore a well-kept but old dress of black muslin and lace that seemed to float about her slim frame and made her white kid-skin gloves glare out from the folds of her billowing sleeves like sun bleached bone. She took him to get a single ice cream cone to share while his opa dragged himself and his father back to the factory for half a shift.

He remembers the feeling of the soft brown gloves she slipped over his hands as his father came home. He wished they could be black. She told him they would last longer if they were brown. He wasn't sure it worked that way but he didn't question his babcia.

There's a lot of yelling when his father and opa get home and it wakes him up. His dad does most of the yelling and doesn't stop until his babcia yells out one of the strange words from her haunting lullabies and he goes pale.

He remembers the night that he was told he was very special and not just because his family loved him very much. He was special because their family was very special. They were like his fae-touched friend from down the hall, except more, their special chose one of their family every other generation. It had chosen his babcia when she was a very little girl, it had told her mother and father she was special even before she was able to use it the same way it had tried telling his parents. The thing that made their family special was very selfish and it needed a lot of attention when he began to use it, so it wouldn't let him have any siblings to take away from how special he was. It wasn't his fault, someone in their family had made a deal or offended one of the 'gentle-folk' or won a bet against Baba Yaga and their children had been left to pay the price. Whatever the reason, their family was special and there was nothing they could do to change it. She had hoped leaving the place where its power came from would make it go away. It only seemed to make it stronger.

She told him she had made sure to have many many children for her parents to spoil. His mother had been her youngest and the only one to cross over with her and opa.

He remembers the first time his family's legacy makes itself known. She was the prettiest girl at the small school that he and the other children of immigrants attended. Her hair was yellow as corn-silk and her eyes were as blue as the cornflowers she usually had woven into her hair. Her skin was pale as fresh milk, her knees and hands were always covered in dirt and grass stains and she carried the smell of green dew, rich earth and fresh rain everywhere she went. It only makes sense when he finds out that her parents had been farmers in their home country and had hopes to move out West once they had enough money saved, that they had done a kind turn for some fae before the end of their first week in this new country even if they had little to share. The young bride had become pregnant before the month was out. Their daughter was born fae-touched under the full-corn moon.

When she was 13 years old and a day she kissed his cheek in thanks for a plate of cookies he had helped his mother make. When he was 11 years and 11 months old he saw the image of this too-pretty girl standing tall and unbreakable in a small garden surrounded by a sea of dust and death. He saw her back straight and her head of now platinum hair held high as she willed the small handful of crops to live, to thrive on the scraps of fertilizer and drops of water she was able to give them. He saw her ancient and beautiful holding a child who called her great grandmother as they watched another coffin lowered into the dry earth like a tax paid for the sake of those left behind. He watched the years fly by as she stands ageless and powerful while her family lives and dies and grows under her protection. He sees the day she kisses yet another descendant on the cheek before handing the babbling babe back to it's mother who smiles sad and sweet at her great grandmother as the woman turns towards the tall rows of corn that now surrounded the small cottage that the men were slowly bringing back to life just like the rest of the old farm. He watches as she walks in between the rows of corn and doesn't come back out again, an unbroken line of cornflowers growing along the borders of the fields and the family's land overnight.

He runs when he comes back to himself. He runs until he's back in his family's small apartment and his head is buried in the folds of cloth on his babcia's lap and her gloved hand is running through his hair while his father is asking questions in the background. He knows he's crying. Crying for the pain in his head and behind his eyes and pricking at his fingertips. Crying for the burning under his skin as he babbles out the beautiful girl's fate in a language he didn't know before this moment and only his babcia understands. He cries for the girl of new dawns and bounty doomed to a life of dust and death. He cries for a country brought to the brink of ruin and the lives lost and torn apart, only saved by the coming of more death across the seas. He cries until the images stop and his body succumbs to sleep.

The next morning when he wakes in his father's bed with the great big quilt his mother had never quite finished pulled up to his chin he lays there, pretending to be asleep a few moments more. He knows that as soon as they know he's awake he will have to put the gloves back on. He will have to put the gloves back on and his babcia will ask how he touched or was touched and tell him all of the important rules all over again. He will have to decide what to tell the pretty girl from down the hall without upsetting his gift and his family can't make the decision for him, only offer advice and tell him what they think is best. His babcia will tell him about the first time she was privy to the fate's designs and what she saw and what she chose to do as she oversees him eating a big bowl of porridge topped with dried candied fruits and nuts that you usually couldn't get out of season but babcia always seemed to be able to find.

He tells her that she will live to see her great great grandchild born. That she will love and be loved so fiercely that it defies the Fates and changes the pieces of the world she touches. He tells her that she will grow strong and beautiful and her descendants will always have a friend in their county for as long as the family owns that land that she will give to and will love her for it. She almost kisses him again with tears in her eyes. She laughs and hugs him, avoiding the small bits of exposed skin he still can't cover without dying from the August heat and mugginess. Her mother hands him a small bag of barley seeds and a light kiss to the hair on top of his head and her father thanks him with a weight and solemnity that reminds him of his babcia.

He remembers when he first saw the Druid Girl. He was nearing his 17th solstice and he was apprenticed to the carpenter who lived in his family's tenement. The beautiful girl of cornsilk and grass stains had moved out west with her parents two years ago, his father was home sick again after years of factory work ruining his lungs and tearing apart his hands, his opa was running himself into the groud trying to keep his little general store down in the square from going under, and Meyer still wore the black armband from the day they had finally put his babcia into the ground alongside his mother and the only sibling he ever met before they were taken from him. He remembers seeing her through the crowd and the way the air punched out of his lungs. She was tall and a bit broad shouldered compared to the other girls in the neighbourhood. Her hands were strong and not fine-boned like other girls' but they seemed so delicate as they took a knife to bunches of dried herbs and treated leathers and clothes. She wore the robes of a druid, he could feel her magic from across the crowded square. He remembered the day he first saw the girl he was going to marry someday.

He remembers the day he first met the Druid Girl and her sister. He was a few weeks passed his 17th solstice and the armband was gone, placed in a box under his bed alongside a much smaller one, a worn through pair of child's gloves and a pair of delicate women's kid-skin gloves the colour of bleached bone. His shoes shone with brown polish instead of black and his brown gloves were worn and butter soft where they wrapped about the small package in his hands. He remembers walking up to the girl as she put away the last of whatever small charm she was piecing together and moved to grab the next ingredients for a new one. She hadn't even glanced his way when she called for one of the other girls to come take her place. The other girl was prettier than any fae or elf-blood he had ever met. Her hair was a golden sort of brown that shone in the sun and her great big blue eyes seemed to glow in the midday light. Her skin was a tanned sort of pale that he knew only real immigrants got, their skin too light to really darken but finally toughened up against the harsh American sun, and her sharp cheekbones were softened by the small upturn of her nose the soft tilt to her full pink lips and softness of her round face. She asked him his name and what she could do for him with a tired sort of resignation to her voice. He asked her what her friend's name was and if perhaps she liked roses. The girl stared at him for a moment, her eyes wide and confused and concerned so he thrust the small wrapped package in his hands into hers and stuttered out something about being across the square and to give it to the druid girl with flaxen hair and steady hands and ran off.

He tells his babcia and mother all about his stupidity and the futility of his romantic prospects with the girl as he clips the grass around their headstones and switches out the flowers in the vases he had half-buried in the dirt.

He remembers the day the Druid Girl makes her way into the old wood-working shop. Small delicate carving in one hand and her friend's wrist in the other. He remembers the way she stormed right up to him, sitting behind the counter and going through the inventory and books once more before having his master look over his work, demanding answers. He finds out that her name is Eistir Parlin and her friend is her sister Roisin. He finds out that both of them are druids, both of them are fae-touched, and both of them are used to Roisin attracting new admirers every day of the week. He finds out that Eistir has green eyes and a light smattering of freckles across her nose and not only is the air punched out of him when he looks at her but he can't seem to get it back when she's this close. He laughs when she demands to know who set him up to it. Who told him to bring her the small carving of her favourite flower covered in gentle runes of protection and calm. Who thought it was a good idea to try and court the Parlin heir when her father had declared that she would be choosing a consort from the sons of some of the oldest clans with family in America.

Roisin likes Meyer and loves her sister more than anything else. So Roisin helps them any way she can when he finally convinces Eistir that he'd had no idea who she was, just that he had seen her and known she was special. She hides their tracks and masks their comings and goings as he courts this lovely, powerful, girl who held his heart in her hands. She helps him the day he sits Eistir down and tells her about family's legacy, tells him that she may not know what it is he needs to tell her sister if it isn't a damned marriage proposal already but assures him that there wasn't anything he could say short a confession of cold-blooded murder that would send her sister running. And even then Eistir might ask the circumstances before deciding to turn him over to the authorities.

Roisin is the sister he never had and he makes an extra visit to his mother and grandmother the day he catches himself thanking the gods she wasn't his sister by blood so she didn't join the other important women in his life. He takes Eistir with him the day before they see Roisin off for her apprenticeship in Brooklyn, the City across the Bridge. He lets her hold him when he takes off his gloves, letting her lay her callouses against his and the visions wash over him.


End file.
